


And the Wind Was Not my Friend

by Swimi



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 20:26:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16604915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swimi/pseuds/Swimi
Summary: Left him with a cousin, the cousin committed suicide...In which Alex's cousin dies and everything is falling apart but he gets by with a little help from his friends.I kind of suck at summaries so if someone wants to write me one after reading I would be incredibly grateful.





	And the Wind Was Not my Friend

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hi there. Firstly, as you may be able to tell, this is my first fic since I was like 12 so I apologise in advance if it’s not the best. 
> 
> Secondly, I want to give the biggest thank you to my friend Hemingways_Cats for inspiring me to start writing again. They got me out of a huge mental block about my writing and reminded me that it’s okay to write for pleasure and not worry so much about the quality of the writing. Thanks my dude, you’re seriously the best friend I could have asked for. 
> 
> If by some miracle you read my fic before you read theirs, go check them out! Their writing is beautiful. 
> 
>  
> 
> Tw: suicide, panic attacks (sort of), mental breakdown, character death. It’s a pretty dark fic, so y’know, safety first pls.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Please feel free to let me know what you think in the comments.

There was a vice around his heart.

At least that’s what it felt like. His heart was beating a frantic drum against his ribcage, urging blood through his veins, urging him forwards. The paving stones smacked his feet as he ran pell-mell through the labyrinth of streets.

Something was wrong.

The smell was overpowering. Thick and black and heavy with an old salty flavour, pungent and repulsive and all encompassing. Filling his lungs and clawing its way back up his throat with thick, foamy bile. Overwhelming. The skies whispered warnings through the trees, but he ran on.

Something was wrong.

 _“why are you running?”_ echoed Lafayette’s voice, half-hearted imitation accent as he called down the school halls (Laurens had been late again). It was from something called vine. Apparently Alex had been living under a rock. Fog filled his head, mixing with the bile at the back of his throat, making his head spin and his chest heave and there were the odd, patchy, multi-coloured flags Mrs. Lee always hung out to dry in the rain, sopping and dripping and now spinning and –

_why was he running? He had to move had to move something was wrong what -_

Left – Right – Duck – Weave – Jump – Turn - Push.

He pushed his door open and the smell _was stronger why was it stronger what_ –

Oh.

He felt sick.

Something was swinging. The window was open and the wind was inside, trying to move the something, trying to protect whatever fragile innocence Alex had left from all the horrors fate deemed fit to throw at him. Alex looked down. Something thick and runny coated the floor. It seeped across the floor, gurgling and struggling and suddenly it was all over him and it was treacle thick and it smelled God it smelled and he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t he can’t –

The wind tugs his hair. It’s pushing his face upwards and he doesn’t want to look upwards and –

Oh.

It’s his cousin. Alex has only been here six months how has he caused this? How? He doesn’t-can’t –

He’s running again. Flying maybe. He’s not in his body and the wind can’t reach him. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just knows that the last member of his family is gone and it’s his fault, it is somehow, it must be because how else can he explain why everyone always leaves and he’s always left standing? Alone. Always alone. And sometimes he can’t write his way out.

Alex sinks down onto the ice cradled grass and he _screams_.

It’s raw and its agonising. It tears through his body and he shatters, his tendons are vibrating and his joints have blown apart and he screams. Because he’s alone again why is he always alone. The last pieces of home are gone. He’ll never see his mother’s eyes shining with life again. He’ll see them blown wide with blood leaking through the sides and so so empty, gazing into some vast expanse of nothingness beyond – or he’ll see them weaken and slide shut, blooded tears slipping through the blinds as he desperately tries to force his mother to wake up – _wake_ _up_ – **_wake up_**.

She never will. No relic of her is left except for him, and he’s just the dull rounded stone from the staff that was once the pharaoh’s most valued weapon. Consigned to the dustbins of history. Barely distinguishable from the ordinary beach stones unless he gets off his knees to _rise up rise up_.

The wind is tugging at his hair again, pulling at his clothes and nipping at his face.

There’s a fluttering on his shoulders and from the end of a dark tunnel filled with treacle blood and sodden prayer flags, he can hear a voice he faintly recognises.

“Lion? Alex? Mon ami? Come back to us. Come back.”

And he raises his head. Just slightly but it’s enough. He’s being gently guided upwards, a battalion of butterflies are tugging him from the treacle blood, softly depositing him just above it. He’s still covered in it, thick and sticky and clinging.

He’s being walked forwards, he realises. The butterflies have stopped humming and something warm and steady is around his waist. It burns the freeze from his skin and he relishes it.

A strong hand is on his shoulder now and he’s coming back. It’s Washington, his mind supplies. Washington and Lafayette and he’s in their car. Soft hands are rubbing firmly up and down his arms and he wants to tell them to stop, that he doesn’t deserve any of it. That everyone keeps dying and it’s his fault and he shouldn’t stick around because then he’ll die too.

He opens his mouth, closes it.

“Breathe, mon ami.”

Inhales. Exhales.

He’s being tugged out of the car now, led up the stony drive onto the Washington’s porch. He smells rain and lavender and _peace_.

Lafayette’s disappeared up the stairs and he’s standing alone in the entryway. Then he’s back, and Alex can smell resin and summer air and there are blankets.

Three of them. Thick and warm and safe. He’s been cocooned in them. Lafayette is pulling him to the sofa, putting on the box of colours and stars, and suddenly belle is dancing with the beast, and Washington’s pressing a mug of something sweet and warm into his hands and he’s not okay.

But that’s alright. He’s not okay but he’s closer, and maybe that’s all he needs right now. He can be okay. Not now, maybe not for a long time, but he can.

 

_The sun sinks lower in the sky. The beast is a beautiful prince. Alex’s head drops onto_

_Lafayette’s shoulder. The lights dim._

_Goodnight._


End file.
